


Don't Say a Word

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Don't [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's POV, Feels, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't know if it's the mark of Cain, but he just doesn't want to hurt anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Say a Word

**Author's Note:**

> To be safe, assume there are spoilers through 9x12

It always starts the same way. “Hello Dean,” and there is an angel with eyes the depth and colors of the ocean staring earnestly right into Dean’s soul.

He’s the same, but he’s different. He embodies quantum physics, because when Dean looks at him, all the things that have ever happened, are happening, or will ever transpire, all occur at the same time. Schrodinger’s cat is dead and alive and he’s Cas. Over and over and over again.

And Dean just doesn’t think he can handle it again. Not another time. He’s terrified.

What was that Garth was saying? Trite-ass shit about happiness and blah-blah-blah and monsters and families? Dean isn’t really sure anymore what came from the tyro werewolf and what from his own agonized brain. He was never exactly top of the class for communication, but he used to be better at it than this.

He doesn’t even know what the hell he agrees to these days. 

“With the mark comes a great burden, some would call it a great cost,” said Cain. Sure, sign me up.

“Well those are my terms,” said Sam. Great, no need to elaborate.

Dean Winchester has never said ‘no’ to a challenge in his life.

And so it begins. Another cycle, eyes locked, lips set. “Hey Cas.”

Because here’s the thing: Cas is a monster too. Let’s not lie to ourselves, an angel is just another monster, only with a fancy laser show. And Dean has seen him at his worst, should fear him, except for the fact that Dean Winchester isn’t afraid of any monsters (except the one inside himself, and only if he thinks about it long enough, really, it’s better not to).

There never seems to be the right time, the right words to express what he thinks, what he feels, _if_ he feels. The last time Dean saw Cas as a human, it was no different.

“Where to, Cas?”

Where to, indeed. He wanted to take him back to his own motel, because, to be frank, it looked like the dude could use a good night’s sleep in a real bed (even though Dean had not asked, and Castiel had not offered, but some things you just knew). Instead, they sat in the Impala, while Dean rebandaged the former angel’s hand using his own emergency kit (which contained whisky instead of ethanol, but hey, different kinds of emergencies and all that).

There was so much he had wanted to say then. There was the truth: about Sam, about why he had to ask him to leave the bunker. And he wanted to say he was sorry, like _really_ fucking sorry. Because one of the only things Dean had ever wanted was a home of his own, and Cas to be part of that home, and that it wasn’t really home without him. And that Cas would never know how much it _hurt_ to ask him to leave, because Dean would never be able to tell him, would never be able to express that kind of hurt. Not orally, anyways. Because Dean _sucks_ at words. And he could only imagine what Cas must have thought of him then, thought of himself, no wonder the dude would barely look him in the eye when Dean showed up at that Gas-n-Sip.

Nora’s house was miles away, the Kevorkian angel buried, baby Tanya was safe, and Cas’ hand cleanly bandaged over, and they still had not exchanged a word. After a while, Dean could tell his friend’s eyes were closing, so he pushed his own car seat to recline further back, and pulled the angel-no-more into his own lap, and ran his fingers through Cas’ thick hair that smelled musky and unwashed and entirely too human until the sun began to rise. His chest felt so full, like it was about to explode. But he held his tongue because, let’s face it, opening his mouth would only have made this situation somehow entirely even worse. (Or so he thought at the time. It turned out he was wrong again.)

But now, Cas is an angel again. And there’s a certain devil-may-care attitude about him, with his new, more form-fitted trench, and his somehow blatant lack of tie, and his rebelliously unbuttoned collar. He’s the same and he’s not the same. And Dean feels his eyes burning and his throat tighten because he’s so good to him, his angel, so patient, and so forgiving. And Dean doesn’t deserve it, of course not. Heck, Dean couldn’t even apologize properly when he _did_ attempt to apologize, and Cas took that too. 

“What happened to you?” the angel asks.

So Dean rolls up his sleeve and shows him the mark. He knows he doesn’t have to explain it. Lets be real, Cas probably knows way more about this Old Testament shit than Dean. Probably knows exactly what Dean had signed up for, and then some.

“Dean…” The angel’s fingers ghost over the mark and Dean can feel it burning, bright and sharp from the touch, the devil inside him rebelling against the angel in front of him.

“Don’t,” Dean tries. “Don’t tell me.”

He doesn’t have to though. Castiel’s eyes are brimming with all the oceans of the world. It’s an abyss against which Dean has fought and lost so many battles. He can read his future in them, even without Castiel having to say a word, and it’s a future filled with the tar pits of Hell.

“I will always come for you,” his angel says, and the dam breaks.

Because if he’s going to Hell anyways, he’s going to damn well have a good reason for it.

Cas doesn’t even have wings anymore, not that it makes him any less terrifying for it, as Dean pulls him by the lapels of his cropped new trench coat and seals their lips together in a kiss filled with a thousand sentences unspoken.

Dean hopes that whatever the hell Cas did when he was human was sufficient lessons because he’s not in the mood to explicate the ins and out of… well… ins and outs. He just _needs_ and he doesn’t care where or how, but Cas is careful to push them towards Dean’s bed, and the hunter is secretly thankful for that because he might be in top fighting shape still, but let’s face it, at least one of them ain’t getting any younger. (Neither of them, really, by the look of Cas’ vessel.)

He doesn’t smell of dead skin and sweat anymore, Dean thinks. He still tastes of Heaven, of what Heaven _should_ be. Somehow, even cut off from it. He tastes of understanding and forgiveness. And Dean wants that smell and taste all over him, around him, inside him. The perma-stubble on the angel’s chin is Sandpaper of the Lord which Dean needs to rub all over his skin, until he’s raw from it.

“Dean…”

“No,” the hunter grunts.

They’re not going to do this. He doesn’t want sweet nothings whispered against his lips; he wants his lips bitten until they bleed. So he takes the first bite and holds the angel’s lip between his teeth while the celestial being’s pupils become dilated from desire and recognition and his irises turn somehow even more azure than before. And then he bites back, and he chews on Dean’s lips as if they were cherries, and he moves on to his chin and his neck, and before Dean knows what’s happening, he’s moaning and bucking up against the man, the _monster_ on top of him. The angel who would always come for him in Hell.

He’s going to die if Cas doesn’t get inside him immediately.

Luckily, the angel is a bit of a mind reader. And luck doesn’t stop there because _mojo_ means _now_. (Dean had always wondered how that would work. Not that he’d ever admit to wondering. Because that would mean he’d given this some serious consideration, wouldn’t it? Which he did, but you’d have to torture him for thirty more years in Hell to get him to confess to it.) He may not be able to fly, but he can do the _thing_ with his fingers. _Oh God_. Dean’s insides feel warm and soft and ready, _fuck_.

“Do it!” he snaps, fingers tightening on Castiel’s flesh. “For fuck’s sakes, Cas! Just do it!”

He does. Castiel’s mouth is so hot against his own, his tongue pillaging the spaces in between Dean’s teeth, he’s too distracted by thoughts of “Who taught you?” and “I’m going to kill them” to feel when the angel has properly sheathed himself inside him.

Dean is going to cry. Scratch that. Dean is crying.

Update: Dean is crying and he doesn’t give a fuck.

 _Christ_ , nothing should ever feel this good. It’s been so long since Dean has… you know. Well, you know. He’s not good talking about that either. And the last time, it wasn’t like this. Of course not. How could it have been? Because Cas is quantum physics. Because it feels like he’s fucking him right now, but also forever, unto eternity, _in secula seculorum_ (because that’s right Dean can think in Latin at a time like this). And the tears running down Dean’s cheeks and soaking his own not-quite-beard are perfectly normal for the occasion. He didn’t shed them all those times the damn angel _died_ on him, did he? He didn’t cry all those times Cas left, or even the time Dean made Cas leave, or the time Dean couldn’t bring himself to remember that Cas had pulled away in Purgatory.

But it’s different now. Maybe it’s the Mark of Cain? And maybe it’s because Cas knows but loves him anyway. Loves him unconditionally. The same way that Dean loves him back. And Dean just doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

Cas is kissing his tears away and fucking him like a damn jack hammer. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think his best friend might have been wanting to do this for quite some time too. And, fuck it, maybe Dean doesn’t actually know better. He doesn’t really know anything anymore. He just wants the heat of him, the weight of him, to squeeze his thighs around the angel’s hips, to feel him push back. So much unfettered power. Dean is happy, and Dean is weeping, and he can’t stop because he doesn’t want to stop.

He’s so wet. From his tears, his sweat, the everything else that’s splattered all over his abs, and it’s making them both sticky. And Cas is still trailing his lips along his face, like a cat trying to lap up the very tracks of his tears. And his heart is beating so fast, but starting to calm down now, and he can hear the heart inside Castiel’s vessel beat too. Beat a staccato in time with his own. And then, Cas takes his hand, and tangles their fingers together, and if Dean looks at it, he can no longer tell where his fingers end and Castiel’s begin. So he brings the mound of conjoined knuckles to his mouth and kisses each one, his lips sometimes brushing his own digits, and he still doesn’t speak because there’s nothing he can say that will make this moment any more perfect than it already is.

There is a pleasant hollow inside Dean’s chest where so much pain and hatred and doubt used to be. He feels light as air. He looks up at Cas, and he sees all his yesterdays and all his tomorrows reflected back at him from those sibyllic orbs. And he’s not afraid anymore.


End file.
